Gemotions

She chewed on her thumbnail, the metallic tang of anxiety a familiar taste. The crossword puzzle lay unfinished, the pen a useless weight in her hand. A shadow fell across the porch. It was young David, the one with the unruly mop of brown hair from next door, clutching a worn pamphlet on organic gardening. “Hey, Mrs. Gable,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I was wondering, would you be okay with me using some of your backyard? I… well, I need something to do, and growing food feels worthwhile.” Her gaze drifted out to the expanse of green, a vast, unyielding canvas.